


Scenes from a Marriage

by Marquise



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: M/M, Missing Scenes, because Gabriel and Francis deserve so much more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-09-29 23:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: Brief moments in the relationship of Gabriel Ashleigh and Francis Webster.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All of this is because I can't get these two out of my mind and there needs to be more. Rating is in anticipation of future chapters (which there certainly will be!).

“This is the first time I have…stayed over.” In the morning light Gabriel’s blush gave him the angelic hue of his namesake and Francis was struck, not for the first time, at his good fortune. 

“Of course it is,” Francis responded, the tone of his voice smoothing over the harshness of his words. The night before was still fresh in his mind, his skin still responding to the very memory of it — of Gabriel, submitting to him in a way he has only fantasized about before, of Gabriel allowing himself to be led upstairs, wrapping himself around Francis, allowing himself to be taken once again…

To think that Francis had come from potential ruin to _this_ was a striking, beautiful thought, one that he intended to treasure for the rest of his days. If this proved to be a glittering bright spot in a sea of unhappiness, if pain were all that laid ahead, at least he would have _this_. 

“No, not like that,” Gabriel picked up a piece of fruit and only to sit it right back down, clearly unsure of what to do with his hands. At dawn, when Francis finally forced himself to untangle Gabriel from his body and ring the servants, he had told them the story that he had concocted while he had laid awake, watching his new lover sleep —they had drank too much at cards last night and Gabriel had been forced to take his empty valet’s bed in the adjoining room. He had ordered breakfast to be sent up and left outside (on account of his drink-induced headache), and returned to bed to find Gabriel blinking away the sleep, smiling up at him in a way Francis hoped would become routine. 

He had dressed himself in loose trousers and an open-necked shirt in order to gather up the tray while Gabriel had wrapped himself in one of Francis’ dressing gowns that did nothing for his color but made Francis’ heart clench nonetheless. And so they had settled down to eat in a bright corner of the room, the very picture of domestic bliss, and it was so _much_ that Francis had to keep dragging himself back to the present. 

“I mean,” Gabriel continued, his eyes downcast, curls falling in an artful manner that could not be by design. “With anyone.”

Francis set his tea down, his breath a stutter. Of course this made sense — nothing in Gabriel’s actions had marked him as a man who had ever had a serious lover. He had probably contented himself with nearly-anonymous liaisons over the years, finding relief where it was offered, never taking more of a risk than was necessary. Francis knew that life well enough, though he was lucky enough to have experienced some escape from it while at university, with a sharp-tongued Lord’s son who had kept him around until he grew bored slumming it with a son of industry (it was not a thought he had allowed himself in quite some time and he quickly pushed it from his mind, desperate not to sully this morning). 

“I see.” He found himself reaching out almost instinctively to touch Gabriel’s fingers, offering assurance with skin_. _“Do you regret it?” 

The words came easily enough as if they had always been there, on the edge of his brain ever since Gabriel had submitted himself to him. The bitterness was a common enough taste in his mouth and he relished in its familiarity for a brief, painful, moment.

“Good God no!” The words were spit out with a fury that was unexpected, and a grasp at Francis’ hand that took him back. He clung on all the same, noting the way Gabriel’s nails scrapped his flesh, the lightness that washed over him.

“One may think you a fool, then,” he found himself saying, common words spoken in an arch tone. And the other man simply laughed, a delightful sound that Francis thought he might very well get used too. 

“Everyone does,” Gabriel responded, his smile and joy not dampening in the slightest. He popped a strawberry in his mouth and Francis found his eyes drawn to his lips, red and well-formed, and the memory of their taste. 

“I don’t subscribe to the opinions of _everyone._” He tried to keep his own voice light but found it impossible, the creeping sense of worthlessness that he liked to pretend he had buried lurking just underneath. If Gabriel noticed the stain in his tone he did not mention it, and not for the first time in the past day did Francis find himself marveling at the man before him.

“I just…usually…” And there was that blush again, so unnecessary in front of a man he had just allowed himself to take to bed, so endearing that Francis did not think he would ever grow tired of it (and that in and of itself was an impossible, beautiful thing, the concept that he would have this man for that long). 

“Usually you don’t linger,” he finished for Gabriel, taking a brief sip of his tea. The hot liquid seemed to settle his running mind, his racing heart, if only for a little. “But you have now.” 

A laugh, then, a musical thing. “I have now.” 


	2. Chapter 2

“When did you know?” 

The question interrupts the soft lull that they had lingered in for seemingly hours. The cracking of the fire and the soft scrape of Francis’ fingers against Gabriel’s scalp had been the only sound to fill the darkened room. Gabriel had settled at his feet, a submissive position that he knew should bring some shame but he could not bring himself to feel that way. Indeed, he felt the opposite — honored, loved, doted upon. That Francis was seen as cold by all who knew him never ceased to surprise Gabriel, even if he had subscribed to that feeling once himself, for there was nothing but warmth and need in his every action. 

At his words his lover set down his wine and pulled at Gabriel’s hair gently, bringing his gaze up. Wrapped in his dressing gown, his fine straight hair mussed, Francis was a decadent sight and Gabriel licked his lips on impulse. He had, in truth, never been a creature of restraint which is what brought him to ask the question that had lingered on his mind for weeks, that had been at the back of every interaction he had had with a man of his kind. 

He had never found it in himself to voice it, however, but in this soft and reflective moment, his muscles loose and his whole being relaxed, the words just slipped out. A blush crept its way up his cheeks though he knew if there was anyone he could speak to of such things it would be Francis. 

“Know what?” The answering question was low, even, and Gabriel did not know if it came from a place of honest ignorance or if his lover just wanted him to say the words. If he felt any embarrassment at this it would be impossible to voice it; having gone so far, he could do nothing now but barrel through. 

“Know that you were…this way.” He finished the thought with a soft laugh, as if that could lessen some of the weight that he had been carrying for what felt like his whole life.

“That I like to fuck men?” Francis responded, always blunt. 

He had to laugh, just a bit, at that answer. In the weeks since the start of their affair Gabriel had found himself wrapped up in Francis’ life and ways until every reaction he received from the other man held a special kind of heft. The shame and embarrassment he had felt in the asking were melting away, swiftly, in the face of such a statement. He was starting to realize the impossibly of feeling uncomfortable around Francis, of feeling unnerved at baring his soul to this man. 

“Yes that.” He turned around as he spoke until he was facing Francis, cheek on his knee, perched before him. A flicker of something dark flashed in the other man’s gaze and Gabriel felt it in his chest, the renewed lust, only tampered down by the seriousness that lay between them. 

“Have you ever asked that of another man?” Francis retorted, avoiding the question. And for the first time Gabriel wondered if he was the only man to feel this way, to have this need to _know_ pressing against him. He wondered if other men shared such information, if his lack of a circle such as the one Francis had been lucky enough to count himself a part of had left him adrift, unaware of the stories and desires of other men of his type. Not for the first time he found himself jealous of the older man, resentful of the five years they could have shared before this time. 

“Never. You know I have not been intimate, really.” He brushed the curls from his eyes, aware suddenly of his own disheveled appearance from the way in which Francis studied him. “But I’ve always wanted to know.”

Francis blinked, paused, letting the weight of this confessional sit between them. “And yourself?”

Gabriel had known he would be asked such a thing, though he did not anticipate going first. But still, if it opened his lover up it would all be worth it. “I was 13 or so. At school.” He bit his lip then, memories flooding his mind — hot summer days, naked bodies that he lingered over too long, fumbling in the dark. That he had never really suffered for such a thing he could account to luck and circumstances. Boys in this position often sought relief with each other, and that Gabriel wanted more — kisses, caresses, someone to love — was a fact that he had kept locked away, thankful it had never been exposed. 

“Common enough,” Francis responded, reaching out to cup Gabriel’s cheek in an almost impulsive manner. “And my answer is, unremarkably, the same. But I have my own question.” 

Gabriel braced himself, lips parted slightly, chest tight. The calmness that he had felt at revealing himself, at Francis’ answer, disappeared at the thought of something new and uncertain around the bend. “Which is?”

“How did you know after you left? When you were no longer in that environment?”

“I always knew, even when I was there,” Gabriel found himself admitting, barreling through any uncertainty. “I knew it was not passing. I knew I wanted this always. I knew I was alone in that way.” He found himself casting his eyes down almost instinctively and forced himself to return to Francis’ gaze. “After school, I suppose it was with some friends, first — nothing serious on their part. And then it was paid.” He felt some shame dripping in that comment, uneasy at admitting such a thing even in the presence of his lover. 

“My Gabriel,” was the response he got, long fingers reaching out to caress his lips. Gabriel pressed forward and offered a kiss to the tips, a reverence that surprised even him. 

In the quiet that followed they regarded each other with the sense of recognition. There was something to be said in revealing yourself in such a way, Gabriel had to think — it hurt, stung like hell, but there was something wondrous in it.

“I was at university,” Francis admitted suddenly. He was not looking at Gabriel then, and Gabriel was suddenly aware of the uniqueness of what he was experiencing. Something in his tone told Gabriel that he had never admitted this to anyone before, that this was deep and that there was a streak of pain in it. “I thought it was love.”

His tone was soft and sharp and Gabriel knew he could not press, even though he wanted nothing more than to _know_. Instead he sat in silence, eyes wide, waiting for Francis. 

“He was a lord’s son.” There was distain in his voice that Gabriel almost felt the need to rebuke but he held his tongue. He dug his nails into Francis’ thigh, a silent form of recognition. “And I was not worthy of retaining.” 

There was so much there, so much to unpack. But Francis did not move on. He stared at the flames until Gabriel was wondering if he had been forgotten. Then, without a word, he pulled him to his feet and into his lap, gripping him and leading him into a heated kiss that said more than words ever could. Gabriel made it his duty to kiss the bitterness away, to commit himself with his body, to force the image of that other, lesser man, away from this room, this sanctuary. 

When he pulled back there was a breathless look on Francis’ face, a smile that could not be called a smirk, and the pleasant darkness, the lust, had returned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are still enjoying this!


	3. Chapter 3

The public rooms of Quex’s were unusually crowded this night, owing to the season, but Ash could not say he minded in the least. There was laughter, and spirited conversation, and perhaps far too much wine — he could feel his cheeks starting to heat — and it all added up to a very pleasant evening indeed. Freddy had been regaling their small circle with some tale, full of praise, of the lady who had his fancy at the moment, and to see his friend in such high spirits left Ash feeling much the same. He had swung an arm around his friend’s shoulders and loudly proclaimed his happiness for the pair; it was only when that moment passed that he had felt some twinge of longing, of sadness, at the inability to share his own tales of contentment with his dearest friend. 

Francis had moved toward the tables long ago, and though Ash did not mind in the least, after his own circle had departed he found himself drifting around the edges of the rooms. The other Ricardians were presumably already upstairs and though Ash knew he would be welcome were he to enter alone it still felt wrong, somehow, to go without Francis. He would feel unmoored, anxious to rejoin his lover, conscious of the intensity of Sir Absalom Lockwood’s stare. And so it was with a final gulp of drink that he made his way to the gamblers, trying to keep his step steady. 

It only took him a moment to find Francis — against the wall, back ramrod straight, long fingers caressing the pasteboard. His eyes were intently focused on his cards, his brow knitted, the whole of his being something Ash had witnessed countless times before. It was Francis at work, in his element, comfortable in his control. But it wasn’t until he took a few more steps into the room that he caught sight of his mouth and almost stopped in his tracks. 

Instead of the customary thin line Ash could make out a slight hint of teeth, biting into the lower lip. The moment passed by so quickly he would not be certain he had seen it were it not for the bitter way Francis then folded his cards, clearly having lost the hand. His facade had undoubtably broken him, leaving him prey for another shark, and the uncertainty that lay beneath that moment rattled Ash on the spot. He froze for a half second, unsure of what to do, then moved as if commanded to his lover’s side. 

He had to stop himself from sliding onto the arm of the chair, as he would in the private rooms, but he still stood as close as propriety would allow. Francis flicked his eyes up at him briefly and if Ash were not mistaken there was relief in that gaze. He felt his heart clench, and not in the familiar, comforting way it often did when Francis looked at him. There was dread there, choking. 

“Francis?” He kept his voice low, as if he were imparting a secret. Francis’ opponents gathered their winnings, taking their leave while they were still ahead, and Francis kept his line of sight focused on them, giving them a short nod of courtesy and a few polite words ringed with bitterness. 

He did not look at Ash, not until the last man had gone, not until they might as well be adrift in the vast room. He took a large gulp of his liquor and cast his eyes off to the side, just catching Ash’s. When he spoke it was as if the words were torn from him and the tone was something Ash had never heard from him before — uncertain, tight, queasy. He felt his own gut twist in response, coil around the simple words: “He’s here.”

“Who?” Ash asked before even thinking, his head swiveling around. It could not be Mal; he would have made his presence known already and besides, Francis would not appear so bloody _frightened_. Before he could make his curiosity more obvious Francis gripped at his sleeve, pulling him down so he could speak in his ear, frustration and pain practically radiating from his body. 

“Lord John Cunnington.” The words were sharp and Francis was not really looking at him. His gaze, instead, was on a cluster of men gathered around another table, in particular one man. Small and slender, with black hair brushed back and sharp features that were almost a match for Francis’ own. A silence settled between the two, as Ash took in the significance of this moment, his thoughts aided by the next words from Francis. “We were at Oxford together.” 

_Oh._

Ash straightened almost on instinct. Everything Francis had told him about his experiences at university, and the lover who had cast him aside, came back to him in a rush. Somehow despite it all Ash had not been able to visualize the man and Francis did not seem eager to help him. Lost in the pleasure of their own relationship he only seemed to bring the subject up when the night was long and the talk ran deep, when he needed to divest himself of something, when he was raw. Ash longed for those moments, treasured this person that Francis never showed anyone else, even though he felt some guilt for the opened wounds, for the weakness Francis clearly despised, for he eagerness with which Ash took it all in. 

“Has he spoken to you?” The words were out of his mouth before he knew they were there, earning him a sharp laugh from Francis. 

“I doubt he remembers.” He was playing with his cards in the way he did when he was nervous. Ash glanced across the room and, seeing no eyes on them, risked the small gesture of placing his hand on Francis’s shoulder. Under his fingers he could feel the ropey tension in his muscles, the clear unease of a body so well known to him. 

Anger flashed through him, hot and real and with more force than Ash expected. He gripped Francis’ shoulder once and moved to cross the room before he even realized what he was doing. With a jolt Francis grabbed him and nearly pulled him off his feet dragging him back; it was only by luck that they did not unsettle the table. His jaw set, he looked at Ash with a mix of anger, worry, and sympathy in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare, Gabriel.” Their gaze held for a moment, and in that moment they might as well have been the only two men in the room, locked in their private conversation. Ash was surprised at the rising emotion in him, the need to confront this man who been the cause of such distress, the desire to show himself to Lord John and flaunt his happiness. He cast another glance to the side; the man had not turned their way once.

“Shall we go upstairs?” It was all Ash could say. They could breathe better there though he wasn’t sure what they could say, for he suspected not even the other Ricardians knew of this humiliation of Francis’. At another time he could almost feel proud of this, of holding something precious to Francis that no one else did. But now he just wanted that look to leave his lover’s eyes and there was nothing he could do about it here, with all of society pressing in. 

“No.” Before Ash could object Francis rose, brushing the sides of his waistcoat, and added. “We need to go home.” And then he moved, long legs taking him from the room, Ash following in his wake without a word. 

Outside, in the darkness, Ash swayed just a bit on the cobbled streets, his eyes growing accustomed to the low light. He took a breath, conscious of how stifled it was in there, and gazed at Francis in the moonlight. 

That hollow look was still there, but need ringed it, crawling out from the depths. Ash knew Francis would wrap himself around him if given the chance, could see it in his stance. In the low light he noted the ache that seemed to engulf Francis and he knew then what he did not want the Ricardians to see. 

“Come home with me.” A simple request, one Ash could not possibly resist. “I’m certain Richard will not mind if we miss a night.”

Ash nodded, all words dying on his tongue. It was a strange, unusual situation.

They walked side-by-side, grazing each other in the darkness, their steps a constant drumbeat against the stones. With each pace he saw Francis crumble just a bit toward him, until they were linking arms, an innocent enough gesture to any passerby. Ash felt the pull to support _him_, marveled at the unfamiliarity of his situation, at being on the other side. 

They made it to Francis’ place without a word, without really even a sense of where they were going. It was with shaking hands that Francis’ unlocked the door and it was then that Ash finally indulged, reaching out to press the palm of his hand in his lower back. 

The servants were gone for the night and Francis slammed the door of the house as soon as Ash followed him inside, as if barricading them against a tide. His mouth was on Ash then in an instant, biting at him as he pressed him up against the door, stealing the breath from him. 

Ash responded in kind, wrapping himself around Francis, pulling at him so tightly he could feel his own breath being cut off. When he finally moved back it was with the hope to drag Francis up to bed, to fuck the memory from him, but he could not. As soon as they were even slightly apart Francis collapsed against him, forehead to his shoulder, his body spasming with silent sobs.

Ash could feel it in his bones. Coldness, anger, and love wrapped itself around him, swallowed him. His arms were around Francis, his hand in his hair and he was holding him as he never thought he would, cradling him against his chest, letting the emotions run from him, stunned into silence. 

He thought of Lord John, of his indifferent stare ahead, of everything Francis had let slip in those unguarded moments and about how even those could not prepare him for this, _this_ — this feeling of loss, this need for comfort, this break from a man so composed and controlled. He didn’t speak, only kissed and caressed until the flood of emotions had drained them to the floor. 


End file.
